


Command Me

by AParisianShakespearean



Series: Dreams [20]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Blow Jobs, Confident Cullen, Confident Cullen Rutherford, Desk Sex, F/M, Gloves, Light Dom/sub, PWP, Semi-Public Sex, Smut, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-14 12:47:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28670988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AParisianShakespearean/pseuds/AParisianShakespearean
Summary: “Time for work is over, Commander,” she orders. “Command me.”He cradles the back of her head, the other hand gentle against her cheek. “Is that what you want?” he asks lowly, gulping,“And you in my mouth.”
Relationships: Cullen Rutherford/Female Trevelyan, Female Inquisitor/Cullen Rutherford
Series: Dreams [20]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/866925
Comments: 2
Kudos: 28





	Command Me

**Author's Note:**

> I had to get this out of my system.

She’s remised of her Commander.

After meeting with Leliana about the scouts she sent to locate a few missing patrols in the Approach, Lydia swung by Cullen’s office craving a kiss and hoping for more. He poured over his maps and reports, though he assured her he’d come to her later. It’s now later, much later, and she sits on her bed in a frilly blue Orlesian nightdress she knew he’d so enjoy tearing off, freshly washed and smelling of jasmine and rose with her hair in soft ringlets. Time passes and he doesn’t arrive. More time passes and when she’s too eager and almost touches herself, she decides she’ll go to him.

She finds a pair of shoes and throws his mantle over her shoulders for warmth—something she stole the other night while pretending to be him, (“I am Cullen, Commander of the Inquisition,” she said, parading around with a deeper voice, the real Cullen on her bed laughing. “That’s a shield in your hand, block with it!”) The night air is chilly against her skin as she dashes to his office. Once to her destination she closes the door behind her with a loud and final thud, spying Cullen with his hair mussed from running his hands through it. He’s hunched over reports, his quill furiously gliding against parchment. A small candle is the only light in his office save for the dim moonlight through the window. He didn’t hear her enter, and he doesn’t hear her approach the side until she clears her throat. It startles him, but when he sees her with a red nose from the chill, he rises with furrowed brows, kneading her shoulders and bringing her into his arms, though he does sweep over her form to admire her chosen garment. His breast plate is a hardened leather but still firm against her, and his gloved hands wrap around hers to warm them. The leather is pleasant against her skin, buttery, and he brings her hands to his lips with the thought to warm them. 

“You were meant to come to me,” she says. “I waited.”

He kisses her fingers in apology—so many reports, so many places Samson could be and they aren’t any closer. Lines of worry in his forehead make her pang. She wants nothing more than to rid the name Samson from his mind for good, but she has no spells to do such as such. Only he does.

She does however, know another spell for temporary bliss.

She throws her arms around him, scratches the back of his neck with firm nails where his armor doesn’t cover before she glances at his parted lips. One hand rests against his heart, beating steadily underneath her fingertips. Already he licks his lips, watching her with heavy and needy eyes in something that is his, blown so wide she only sees the thinnest rim of hazel. She rises slightly on her toes to meet his lips, and though his lips are more pliant against hers in a plea for more, deeper, she parts.

“Time for work is over, Commander,” she orders. “Command me.”

He cradles the back of her head, the other hand gentle against her cheek. “Is that what you want?” he asks lowly, gulping,

He’s already half hard against her. “And you in my mouth.”

She nudges him to his chair where he plops down with unmasked delight, his legs spreading, meaning her to sit between. She asks if he wants the mantle on or off, and though such bliss they have had with her wearing it and only it during times of passion, he replies, “off.” It falls to the floor. The nightgown follows, Lydia pulling one strap off her shoulder before pulling of the other, the silk falling at her feet. After stepping out of her shoes, She basks in the candlelight, basks in his office where too many people filter in and out throughout the day…where someone could enter now. But it’s night. No one would dare, and she’s not sure what’s more concerning, the fact that someone might see or the fact she may not care.

He drinks her in like he’s a droughted man and she’s an oasis, though he only drinks and manages to restrain himself from palming his clothed erection, sweeping over her form and fucking her with only his eyes. She palms her breasts, teasing herself at first before pinching and squeezing her nipples to peaks. Yet when her hand slides to her center, her fingers barely ghosting over her outer lips before she really touch herself, he rasps, “come here.”

She does. He juts his hips as she sinks to her knees to him, sitting between his legs to bestow herself and her mouth. She tugs down his breeches, just enough to free him, and he inhales a sharp breath as her tongue licks a line, grasping him and wiping away the arousal gathered at the tip. She watches him as she takes only the tip against her tongue, his gloved hands picking up her hair, tugging. He doesn’t close his eyes. He wants to watch.

No time for modesty—she’s already naked before his fully armored self with his cock in her mouth in his office, so she hums as she sucks and licks, not able to take all of him in her mouth but encasing enough to where he moans and pants, sweat perspiring at his brow. Her hands splay against his broad, sinewey thighs, digging her palms in, and she thinks she’d like to finish him that way before he tugs hard at her hair, muttering “stop.” With a loud pop she withdraws him, his thumb caressing her bottom lip in reverence.

“Sit,” he orders, motioning to his lap. She does so, her back pressed against his front. She is warm and wetting his breeches with her open self on him, legs spread, and he wraps one possessive arm around her, his breath against her skin. He growls into her ear, “what do you want?”

“You,” she rasps, “your hands.” His lips are soft against the line of her neck before teeth graze, his tongue lightly darting against her earlobe. His armor presses into her and it should hurt not to feel his skin, to have sharp edges pressed into her flesh, yet she wiggles and writhes against him, falls against him as his gloved hands spread her open a little more to draw small circles against her clit, the sounds of her arousal against the leather filling the room. The other hand grasps her breasts, pinches and arouses her further, and when she comes she comes with an unholy shriek, Cullen grabbing her cheek so he may catch her cries with a kiss. He welcomes her climax with gentleness in his kiss before he chastely kisses her cheek, caressing her heaving body in tenderness that contrasts their bold lewdness. She writhes again, smirking when she becomes aware of his still hard cock behind her, and that’s when he orders her, “rise.”

Her back still behind him, he nudges her close to the edge of the desk. With one grand motion he sweeps books and parchments and paper off as he kisses her still, telling her where to go. She presses her cheek against the stone, relishing his eyes admiring her back, her generous ass as she shifts, too ready for him. He grabs her hips and kneads, asking her to spread her legs as his warm cock glides against her. “Yes,” she pleads when he asks if she wants him inside, and again he asks “what do you want?” only for her to cry out, “you, inside me.” She yelps when he’s slow to enter and spread, begs for more when he continues the slow dance before increasing the tempo. He fucks her with no restraint and no hint of shame for both their exhibitionist show in his office where anyone may see or the fact he contradicts all the innocent Andrastian lectures he used to hear. He contradicts it all, becomes not the man who makes love to his wife on a soft bed, but a lover who fucks his woman with her face pressed into his desk. Sometimes they make love and sometimes they decidedly fuck, and he fucks and he’s fucking good at it, commanding her to stay where she is until he longs to see her face, longs to kiss her. She turns and lifts herself on the desk, her thighs spread and wide and all too eager to have him inside again. He’s so lost in bliss and transfixed he’s sloppy when he kisses her, more so finding her chin rather than her lips first before her mouth opens for him and their tongues meet. He orders, touch yourself, and she does. “Come on my cock,” he tells her it takes a few more rough and slick flecks of her hand before she has her second ending, softer but with residual washes of frissons that make her cling to him.

“Inside me,” she mutters, “inside,” and he lets himself come and come beautifully, freely, holding her close, grasping too tight yet not tight enough. He holds her, breaths into her as he comes, and she is dimply aware of how cool his vembraces are against her back, his breast plate still rough edges against her stomach and breasts. As they come back to earth she feels that brief rush of modesty, yet his body acts as her shield toward the rest of the world, covering almost all her nakedness. Before he can part she wraps her legs tightly around him, ankles locking, and he nods with understanding that she wants him close, indeed staying as close as possible even as he withdraws himself out, pulling his breeches back up.

“Was that too…?”

She shakes her head, touched at his concern, his gentle caresses against her cheek, gloves still on and still warm. She shall have to ask him to keep them on more often.

“No,” she assures again. “I promise.”

He motions up to his room, his bed where he surely plans to properly bed her, make up for making her lonely earlier, though she feels not lonely at all now, even as he apologizes.

“Shall I, make it up?”

She holds his cheek in her hand. “There’s nothing to make up for. Besides, I think you already did.” 

He grins boyishly, radiantly. “Good.”

One last kiss upon his desk before she throws on her nightgown and picks up his mantle from where it fell, helping him clean their mess. So many stories the desk has. Happy she is, to bestow it with another with the man she loves.


End file.
